


Cardinal Sins

by witchbane



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Angst, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Murder, Russian Mafia, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-04-29 06:46:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14467236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchbane/pseuds/witchbane
Summary: A knife unmade a man as much as any weakness, and a bullet did it even faster.One last job. That's all Yuuri needs to do before he can finally go home. But Viktor Nikiforov never made things easy.A series of vignettes featuring a hired gun and the man he's aimed at.





	Cardinal Sins

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Смертные грехи](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14546325) by [Sheally](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheally/pseuds/Sheally)



> For [Asce](http://lovelytitania.tumblr.com/) who drew the lovely piece accompanying this story. Truly an angel. ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎

_i. pride_

 

It was past midnight when the woman walked in, carrying on her the smoke-and-oil stench of the streets. Yuuri watched her warily, cataloging by rote every nuance of that unfamiliar face. Dark hair, darker eyes, full lips sticky with gloss. _Foreigner_ , Yuuri noted, a sight so common in that far-flung corner of Beijing as to be easily overlooked. He chose it precisely for that reason, in fact, so he could lose himself amongst them inside the city’s seams and folds.

But this woman was different, no stranger in a strange land. She radiated confidence sitting beside Yuuri at the bar, glancing at the menu only briefly before turning in her seat. “I can’t read anything in this country,” she confessed, the English rough and rolling on her tongue. “Anything good?”

Familiar words—the ones he’d been waiting to hear all night. His mouth was suddenly dry, so he took a long pull of his beer, the bottle sweating in his too warm hand. “Depends on what you like.”

“Vodka, usually. But anything will do.” She flashed a smile that neither of them bought.

A prickle of doubt ran up his spine, but he pushed it aside. “Maybe we can help each other out.”

 

 

_ii. greed_

 

The trouble with murder as a profession, Yuuri found, was how difficult it was to retire. Friends were few for those who dealt in death, while the enemies were many. Sometimes—often—they were one in the same.

Yuuri knew, long before the order was given, that the Family he worked for would never give him up. In their hands he was too valuable a weapon, and out of them too much a threat. The only way out, it seemed, was death.

So he was ready when they came, baying for his silence and blood. At the first opportunity he ran, fleeing to a place where no one knew his name. What Yuuri hadn’t prepared for was the loneliness of it all, how untethered survival would feel. Five years of absence snapped into place all at once, the wound of his heart tearing anew and every scar there a roadmap pointing _home._

Longing etched itself onto every line of Yuuri’s body. He wanted Hasetsu’s salty air, its slow tides and sleepy people. He wanted his family, in their squat little onsen, where things were soft and warm and safe. These Russian winters were cruel by comparison. Frost nipped at his skin, sunk marrow-deep into his bones. Its beauty was sharp as the edge of a knife, the palaces and parishes of Saint Petersburg worlds apart from everything he loved. And yet, Hasetsu felt closer than ever.

 _Kill him for me,_ the woman said, _and I’ll help you. You can stop running._

Viktor Yakovlevich Nikiforov was everything the rumors claimed. Cold beauty with colder eyes, lit with ambition that burned through the dark. It was this same ambition that allowed Yuuri so close, under the guise of business, with only the flimsy table of some upscale restaurant between them.

“Isamu-san,” Viktor said. The false name took a second to sink, as if moving through water in Yuuri’s head. “I’m glad to finally be doing business with the your group, but I thought, surely, that I’d be dealing with your kumicho himself.”

“And he would have loved to, Mr. Nikiforov, but we’re only a small family and precautions must be taken, even amongst allies.” Yuuri wet his lips against the practiced words. “He sends his lowly _wakagashira_ instead and hopes you’ll forgive his absence.”

Infiltrate the inner circle, take the kill, frame another party. The woman had been clear: the attack couldn’t come from within. A broken Bratva was worse than a leaderless one, she said, and the latter wouldn’t last once she took the Pakhan’s mantle.

Something secret curled on Viktor’s lips. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

 

 

_iii. lust_

 

Viktor was nothing like Yuuri expected. Cruel at turns, with a streak of viciousness that appeared in the tilt of his head and cut of his smile. Yet he was fair also, sometimes even kind. He was possessed of himself, and answered to no one but his own whims—and for that Viktor was hated and admired, the way bright things both repelled and drew the eye.

Yuuri saw at once what the woman had meant, the danger of following this man. He could charm his way into any bed or contract or kill, his guile a weapon used on friends as much as enemies. If Yuuri had months, then perhaps he could have picked apart all these little intrigues, layers dissolving into layers of power and pride. But he had only a mere handful of weeks. Certainly not enough time to understand what made a man like Viktor Nikiforov, and what brought him to his knees.

Not that he needed to.  A knife unmade a man as much as any weakness, and a bullet did it even faster.

They circled one another, drawn in as if by gravity. Yuuri became his shadow in that time. There was nowhere the Pakhan went that Yuuri was not also, standing at his elbow, whispering in his ear. _We should learn more about each other before our families fall into bed together_ , Viktor said, the innuendo dripping off his tongue. _I’ll teach you everything you need to know._

None of Viktor’s men questioned him, but Yuuri felt the weight of their eyes grow heavier each day he lingered. He cultivated their curiosity, drifted further into Viktor’s orbit until no one could mistake what this was: The hand resting on his lower back, tracing patterns up his spine. That low voice in the winding paces of seduction, warm with flirtation, rich with suggestion.

Yuuri knew then exactly the story he’d spin, one old and worn as time. He slipped into it with all the ease of pulling on a costume. A tryst gone wrong, passion burnt into the black ash of violence, a man murdered in his lover’s bed. It was sordid enough that they’d whisper, common enough to disinterest prying eyes. Yuuri would be gone by the time they bothered to look for him seriously, leaving only someone else’s shadow in his wake.

 

 

_iv. envy_

 

It should not have surprised him to see her again, yet the sight of her struck him like a freight train when she showed up unannounced in Viktor’s office a month into the job. They had just come in from inspecting a shipment at the docks, cheeks still flushed from the cold, when they noticed her lounging in the Pakhan’s chair. “Vitya,” she greeted, smiling as she stood.

“Anya!” They embraced, and Yuuri saw only sincerity when Viktor turned to him. “Isamu-san, I don’t think I have introduced my _derzhatel obschaka_ yet. This is Anna Yakovlevna.” Her dark eyes gave nothing away, but her nails scraped against his pulse as they shook hands. “We both were Yakov’s wards before he passed,” Viktor explained, catching the surprised expression on Yuuri’s face at the sound of her name. That, at least, he did not have to fake. “My sister in all but blood.”

“Your sister,” Yuuri whispered, the realization nearly catching in his throat when he remembered his own. _Mari, Mari, Mari._

“Something like that,” Anya said wryly. The secret between them folded up in her mouth like a letter, meant just for him. “If you’ll excuse us, Isamu-san. Vitya and I have some family matters to discuss.”

He nodded, glad for the dismissal, and stumbled from the office. The woman—Anna— _Anya_ . Viktor had called her his _sister_. She and him would have grown up together, broken bread at the same table, seen each other bleed and bruise and cry. They had shared loss, and probably happiness too. It did not occur to him that they’d be close enough to share anything but contempt. The truth of it sunk his heart like a ship, filled him with something so much like grief it left him struggling to breathe.

Loyalty. Trust. Life. Blood. Death. A mantra he knew all too well, those things so closely intertwined in a world like theirs. The breaking of a promise like that could splinter the whole of one man’s world.

That’s exactly what happened to him, after all.

At least he had a home to go back to, a place he kept hidden in the innermost chambers of his heart. Where did a man like Viktor Nikiforov go when the rest of the world turned against him? Who did he run to in his time of need?

 

 

_v. gluttony_

 

“Do you regret it? Choosing this life?” The question fell so quietly from Yuuri’s lips the night nearly swallowed it whole.

Viktor heard it anyway and smiled. They were standing on a terrace, alone for the first time. No guards, no consultants, no _Anya_. Just the two of them, with their misty breaths hanging in the air close enough to mix. “What makes you think I chose it?”

“Didn’t you?” Yuuri asked. “Didn’t we all, one way or another? You could have left it all behind, started new. But you didn’t.”

“Maybe I would,” Viktor said in a voice soft as starlight, hand raised to cup Yuuri’s cheek, “if something worth it came along."

 

 

_vi. sloth_

 

His knuckles bleached bone-white around the phone, his fingers bitten red by frost. A shrill ringing pierced his ear—once, twice—falling silent when someone finally picked up. A woman’s voice curled out from the other end of the line. _“Is it done?”_

Yuuri shook his head. Then, remembering that she couldn’t see him, nearly wavered. “I’m out. Find someone else.”

 _“You’re backing out now?”_ Anya demanded, her tone unreadable. _“Need I remind you of our deal? Without me, you’ll spend the rest of your life running. Is that what you want? Is his life worth all that to you?”_

No. Maybe. “Why kill him?” Yuuri asked instead. “For power? Money? You’re his second-in-command. Isn’t that enough?”

 _“It was never about power. Vitya moves through the world as though nothing will ever touch him. A man like that can’t be trusted. He’ll get us all killed, sooner or later.”_ Her laugh was diamond-sharp, then. _“I’ll be damned before I let him drag us all down with him.”_

“It doesn’t matter. You needed me because you couldn’t touch him. Because he doesn’t have weaknesses.”

He could almost hear her smile. _“That’s not exactly true anymore, is it? He has you.”_ The phone clicked off, leaving only silence.

 

 

_vii. wrath_

 

The old car shuddered beneath the strain of his driving, yet Yuuri refused to slow down, his foot like lead on the accelerator as he raced towards a building overlooking the banks of Neva. His phone clattered in the footwell, where he’d thrown it after failing to reach Viktor himself. _“Please leave your message for 812-XXX-XX-XX,”_ the recording mocked, again and again.

He should have just gone. Viktor wasn’t his responsibility, was owed nothing. But the thought of leaving him behind without so much as a warning sat bitterly in his chest. Yuuri would never forgive himself if it came to that, and so he turned the car back, though he was already halfway out of the city, a hand on the wheel while the other frantically dialed Viktor’s number.

The apartment was dark when he finally managed to pick the lock open and sneak inside. Nothing  greeted him but the sterile air that filled each room like a second body breathing down his neck. Each step he took was unsettling; the open floor plan left nowhere to hide, made his skin crawl as if he were standing naked for everyone to see. Something stirred in the corner of his eye. Yuuri jerked towards it, his gun out in a flash and trembling in his hand. “Viktor!”

The shadow resolved into detail: sharp blue eyes, a cutting smile. “I wasn’t expecting you tonight. This is quite the surprise.”

“You have to go,” Yuuri interrupted. He didn’t lower his gun. “Right now. They’re coming for you tonight.”

“They?” Viktor seemed to ignore him, pacing the room’s length, hands folded behind his back. “And what of you, _Yuuri_?”

The air went still—and so did Yuuri’s heart for a single, terrifying moment. The chill that lanced up his spine became a shock of lightning, sparking all of his senses into high alert. “How do you know that name?” Viktor watched him, unanswering. Whatever fear he felt for the other man mutated into something ugly and snarling. “How _the fuck_ do you know that name?”

“I’ve known who you were since the moment we met,” Viktor told him. “Did you think I would have let you so close, if I didn’t?”

There was bile in Yuuri’s throat, suddenly, thick as tar and burning. He felt sick with it. “So this was, what—a test?”

“At first,” Viktor admitted, sparing Yuuri a look he did not understand. “I wanted to find out who sent you. It’s the closest anyone has gotten to actually killing me in years. And I admit, I was a little curious too. They called you _enenra_ , once, a demon of darkness and smoke. I wanted to know more about the most feared man in Japan and what brought him to my doorstep. You weren’t what I expected, back then.”

“And now?”

“I just want to keep you close.”  Viktor stepped closer, his hands up. Yuuri saw the glint of a gun in his palm, but before he could do so much as blink, Viktor had already unloaded the magazine and sent it crashing to the floor. The bullets fell out— _clink, clink, clink_ —useless. “My life, in your hands.”

“Why?” Yuuri choked out. Anya was right. Of course she was.

“I think you’d be worth it.” A pause, and then a plea like nothing Yuuri had ever heard from those lips. “Stay with me, here. Yuuri, I—” But before Viktor could say more, the night shattered around them. Glass sprayed inside the room from the windows. Viktor cried out. An awful, wounded sound that tore  through his throat as he dropped to the floor.

Yuuri froze for a split-second, then dropped down to crawl on hands and knees. His heart was ready to leap out of his throat. Only Viktor’s hitching breaths assured him that the man was still alive. He pressed his hands over Viktor’s shoulder to staunch the flow of blood, muttering, “No, no,” with his head bent over the injury. “Shhh, stay still. I’ve got you.”

A thumb passed across his lips to silence him. “Let’s go together,” Viktor said, voice steadier than Yuuri felt. “I’m ready now.”

The protest died in Yuuri’s throat. “Okay,” he whispered, then offered a shoulder for Viktor to lean on as they crawled from the room. Bullets sprayed above their heads, sinking into the plaster and showering them in dust. Yuuri kept their pace steady, their bodies low to the ground. His arm was wrapped firmly around Viktor’s waist, and the warmth of them together was a ward against the cold night seeping in through the broken windows. “There’s a car outside…” He tugged them towards a stairwell, down several flights. Viktor was straining beside him, pained gasps hissing through clenched teeth. Blood warmed Yuuri’s cheek and neck—his own roiling beneath his skin, and the smears Viktor left wherever they touched.

Footsteps pounded up the stairwell. Yuuri heard them first, and he was ready when they turned the corner into his line of sight. The first man fell, and then the second, before the rest caught on. But Yuuri had the higher ground, a steadier arm now that Viktor leaned against him for support. He felt stronger like that, somehow. Their gunshots echoed, their bullets ricocheted against the narrow walls, their screams of agony and grunts of exhaustion filling the gaps between. When dust and death finally settled around them like a fine mist, they two were the last ones standing.

The peace would not last long. There was Viktor’s wound to be treated, already blooming livid red on the bleached white of his shirt. There were the rest of Anna Yakovlevna’s men, ready to chase them down to the ends of the earth. And yet Yuuri could not find it in himself to regret as they drove through the black streets of Saint Petersburg, following the Neva down into deeper country. All of the world slipped by him—save for the tight grip of Viktor’s hand in his, meeting him right in the middle.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd just like to thank the _In Cold Blood_ mods for having me! Four pages isn't much, but I did my best, and I hope you all liked it!
> 
> There's a running theme in my mafia fics, it seems! I just really love the idea of a hitman falling in love with their target, and all the sweet, sweet angst it can produce. This is a big departure in style for me so I'm still iffy. I'm not much of a vignette writer? But anyway....it's done lmao.
> 
> As always, thank you for your continued support! Your kudos, bookmarks, etc. mean everything to me. Find me at my YOI blog [witchsbane](https://witchsbane.tumblr.com/) on tumblr if you wanna chat/ask me questions, and I made a [twitter](https://twitter.com/witchsbane) now too! Find out more about my writing and how to keep me plied with coffee by following me there.


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